firmly, 'mamma wants you to stay.' But she persisted with all her might,
and I had to punish her twice before she would consent to lie still; I
was turning to leave her when I thought her sobs sounded more rebellious
than subdued, I knelt down and took her in my arms to kiss her, but she
drew back and would not kiss me. I saw there was no submission in her
obedience and made up my mind not to leave her until she had given up her
will to mine. If you can believe it, it was two full hours before she
would kiss me, and then she couldn't kiss me enough. I think when she
yielded to my will she gave up so wholly that she gave up her whole being
to the strongest and most loving will she knew. And as soon as she knew
God, she knew--or I knew--that she had submitted to him."

"Come to tea," called Marjorie, joyfully, a moment later.

This lovely story about herself was only one of the happenings that
caused Marjorie to remember this day and evening: this day of small
events stood out clearly against the background of her childhood.

That evening in the church she had been moved to do the hardest, happiest
thing she had ever done in her hard and happy eleven years. At the close
of his stirring appeal to all who felt themselves sinners in God's sight,
Evangelist (he would always be Evangelist to Marjorie) requested any to
rise who had this evening newly resolved to seek Christ until they found
him. A little figure in a pew against the wall, arose quickly, after an
undecided, prayerful moment, a little figure in a gray cloak and broad,
gray velvet hat, but it was such a little figure, and the radiant face
was hidden by such a broad hat, and the little figure dropped back into
its seat so hurriedly, that, in looking over the church, neither the
pastor nor the evangelist noticed it. Her heart gave one great jump when
the pastor arose and remarked in a grieved and surprised tone: "I am